


Admitting One's Destiny

by Faline (rubberbisquit)



Series: What's Left of the Flag [1]
Category: Jericho (US 2006)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-21
Updated: 2011-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbisquit/pseuds/Faline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward Beck loses *everything* when he discovers the treachery of the Attacks.  Spoilers for the whole series, comes in during 2x07</p>
            </blockquote>





	Admitting One's Destiny

It’s a hot, rolling anger that bubbles in her eyes. Disdain. Hatred isn’t the right word, but it works right now.

“You refuse to open your eyes and see it!”

“My eyes are open.”

“No, they aren’t. And everyone in this town is suffering for it.” She’s hurt. Trust is a hard thing to earn; easy to lose and convoluted at best in these times. And hers has been stretched.

The pleading in her eyes tells you that she still wants to believe in you. But damn if thinking about her comments from yesterday don’t still hurt. ’She compared me to scum. A horrible man.’

Right now it’s more than you can bear. “Lieutenant, this woman is under arrest. Get her out of here.”

Margrave walks in, turning Heather around and leading her away by the shoulders. His lanky gait is awkward behind her irritated steps and you sink back against your desk. The confrontation has made you mad.

Indignant.

Livid isn’t the right word but it’ll work for now.

You want to punch something, bad. Beat the fuck out of Robert Hawkins for the shit storm he’s put you in along with Valente. It’s his orders that are causing this uprising. It’s his fault this whole mess even exists. His fault.

Trust is so easy to break and so hard to get back.

Taking a seat behind your desk, your elbows get propped up and you start to think. This has been a fuck all assignment. From the beginning, with the double mission of peacekeeping and terrorist hunting, it’s felt more like orders on top of orders on top of orders than an effort for the greater good.

And then Hawkins showed up, waving his badge in your face and demanding you stop impeding his investigation.

It was that moment when he first planted that seed of doubt in your head when it all started going down hill.

A week. And your belief in your country had begun to dissipate. Unconditional devotion isn’t exactly your failing but its close enough.

The noises of the office mean nothing in your storm of thought but you do hear the boots approaching, the ‘Sir’ coming from the door and Maris is asking for your signature on Hawkins’ inventory.

A week ago you’d have signed it without a second thought. Today, the wounded look of betrayal on Heather’s face makes you pause.

Maris is probably displeased about having his carefully inventoried work torn apart. J&R likes their organization. But, you need to know.

You need to know more than you need air right now. You need it more than Heather’s trust. You need it more than anything. Because knowing will relieve this pressure in your chest. This weight of doubt that causes you to second guess everything you’ve done with yourself up to this point in your entire life.

He returns with the box and you pull it apart. Pull out the laptop and boot it up. The screen blinks on; Hawkins was in the middle of a file.

Your eyes start to scan the page.

Devastating horror isn’t quite the way you would normally describe this feeling but the numb working it’s way from your chest outwards is a pretty fucking fantastic way to put it at this very moment.

Heather’s eyes. She probably hadn’t even seen the evident and she knew. She could see.

What you’ve done; you are a terrible person doing terrible things for a country that shouldn’t exist and by every right will kill everything you know and love about the country you signed up to protect.

Head swimming and vision blurring at the edges, you close the first document and browse the main folder. A title catches your eye. ‘DOA’

Two clicks and a list pops up in a spreadsheet. The top is sectioned; numbered, name, location, cause of death, date, known relatives.

With fingers worn cold by fear, your finger drags down the minuscule scroll bar to the bottom of the list to find a number ranging somewhere in the two hundred million range.

Flashes of towns and cities across the country parade in front of your eyes and you scroll back up through the list. You’re looking at every casualty of the attacks and, judging from the dates, every war related casualty afterward.

Mouse hovering over the name tag, you hold your breath and click. You scroll.

And the world ceases to exist around you as two names arrive on your screen. Mallory and Fay Beck. Dead 11/21/06. Tuscan. Cause of Death, Unknown. Your name, in the very last column, the one for known relatives, breaks whatever passed as your heart in half.

And the world around you fades away.

It would be foolish to say you passed out. Fainted.

Gave up is more like it. That’s a pretty damned fine descriptor. Coming to with a gasp the world tilts dangerously on its axis and the names still burn on the screen. Your finger hits the mouse and window closes, bringing the list of folders back to the forefront.

You’ve been a bad man.

And now your family is dead. Killed by the government you’ve been killing for.

Ironic is really the only good way to describe it.

~!~

Deep breaths are going to get you through the coming days you think.

In and out. In, a sip of 28 year bourbon you’ve been bogarting for the better part of your now ended military career, and then out. The burn isn’t harsh. On the contrary, it’s welcome at the moment.

Reminds you that there’s more pain in life than the loss of one’s entire belief structure. Or of one’s most loved in the world.

Your men deliberate. It’s not clear what the verdict will be but whatever the four of them decide, your choice is made. You have lost everything in the span of weeks and you know who’s to blame.

The corrupt government will pay for this.

Pay for the endless deaths. You think, almost macabre, that you should add Bonnie Richmond and Goetz to the list of casualties.

Standing over her grave, seeing the grief on the faces of her family, affected you more than anyone will ever know. You wanted to cry with them. Grieve with them. They lost their friend, their sister. And you’ve lost the woman you swore to love, honor, and cherish until death do you part along with the passel of sunshine that the two of you created.

Bonded by loss. But unable to associate. That’s been a curse since you arrived here. You’re all Americans. Now at any rate. But the umbrella of your station has prevented you from seeing the true people who walk these streets. It’s prevented you from realizing that they are, in many ways, stronger and more capable of dealing with the misfortunes of this catastrophe than you are.

But not any more.

One face rises in your mind. Betrayed and hurt, but still hoping and begging for you to realize the man you really are.

Your liaison.

Heather.

The name conjures images of home. Real home. Hidden Springs, Colorado. Heather in the fields of spring, spreading purple blankets across the hills. The smell is so sweet you’d swear you were there now.

You shake your head. Hidden Springs was declared abandoned from the Denver fall out. You never did get a chance to get back there and grab a few things, not that you’d be able to touch them for any amount of time that mattered to you.

The glass rises again and another sip slides past your lips. The burn, however small, is diminished with each drink as it slowly numbs your throat.

You have no intention of getting drunk. But, if you’re going to be court-martialed then there’s no point in not having some relief on the job. Or, you justify, the end of your career.

Soft foot falls in the hall way and you glance at the window again, thinking it’s time.

It’s not. It’s better than that. It’s Heather.

Despite your constant thoughts wandering in her direction, you don’t really want to look at her. Your eyes avert. This is some good bourbon and you’re fairly certain you don’t want her around when you get shipped off to Cheyenne to be ‘judged’.

“I told the Lieutenant to release you without condition.” The words are harder than imagined. Today has been shit. Her pain is still there. ‘I could have you arrested, or even executed'. “You don’t need to be here.” You can’t need her to be here.

It doesn’t matter that in the thirty seconds she’s been in your presence your breathing has evened and your mind settled. At least some.

“I know.” Hope. That seems to be a reoccurring theme where Heather’s concerned. You catch the smile on her face and it tells you that she does need to be here. It’s the second longest moment you’ve felt today.

Not only hope, but forgiveness.

Trust.

She is a good woman. And she still thinks you’re a good man.

There are always small mercies in the world.

The men start talking now and you glance over. They’re still pouring over that computer. They can take their time. You’d like to finish your drink, at the very least.

“What’s happening in there?”

She’s staying by you, you conclude. She’s still defending you. Sticking up for you despite the horrors you’ve unleashed upon her friends. Her town. “They’re trying to decide what to do about me. Gave them Hawkins laptop, let them see the evidence for themselves.”

You don’t know what you’ve done to deserve her kindness, but at this moment, it wouldn’t be so bad to accept it. “You were right, about everything. Thanks for not giving up on me.”

She nods and you toast to her. To her dedication. Devotion. To all of her qualities that have been lacking in the others around you for probably years.

Love isn’t a word that would touch it, but the look in her eyes makes you wish it was.

You feel refreshed now. Stripped of a guilt that shouldn’t have been yours to bear and forgiven for actions that shouldn’t have been commanded. She would probably forgive the devil for his vanity if she met him face to face.

The office door opens and you straighten slowly. Jones leads the others and draws to a stop in front of you. His expression is unreadable. You don’t panic. He’s not irrational and should they chose to report and arrest you he knows you wouldn’t swing on them.

They’re still the men you’ve been living and fighting and dying next to for the last eight months.

Jones’ hand rises and the patch comes off with a clean sound that is reminiscent of release for some reason. He throws it to the table and straightens.

”Your orders sir!”

~!~

“What are you going to do now?” Heather is standing now, closer to you. The smile on your face slides away and you glance down at your drink.

What are you going to do? You now lead, essentially, a company of US Army soldiers in the middle of enemy territory. 200 miles from Texas; 600 odd miles from the blue line.

The answer finds itself for you. Your phone rings. Both you and Heather glance at it in surprise. “Give me a moment Heather, please.”

She nods and backs out of the room. Your bourbon will wait and it gets set down. You pick up the head set, and await the worst.

“Major, this is Valente.” Your blood freezes and starts flowing in reverse. That’s the only explanation for your sudden inability to stand. Collapsing against the desk, you don’t reply. This means one of two things. Either something has happened in Cheyenne, or he knows you’ve defected.

“Major, about thirty minutes ago a plane carrying contraband that you and your men seized yesterday took off from the Cheyenne airport.”

Hold your breath. This can only mean the end of the rest of the known world.

“Would you like to explain to me why and how Robert Hawkins is alive and now in possession of a nuclear weapon?”

Without missing a beat you make your reply. “Sir, the fugitive and terrorist Robert Hawkins is still at large and we have no leads as to his whereabouts. As for the package, it was delivered to Cheyenne as instructed sir. I received confirmation of its arrival at the J&R facilities this morning.”

The growl of the man on the other end raises your hackles.

It’s been a long time since you’ve had to look at yourself real hard to see such large imperfections and the first person on the pecking order of those to blame is him.

You open your mouth to continue, probably something along the lines of finding him and killing him for having a hand in the death of so many, including your family. Something stops you though.

A small hand splayed on the window of your office. Heather’s eyes lock on to yours and she smiles, reassuring. “Our search for Hawkins will continue, just as our search for Sarah Mason will continue.”

Valente clears his throat. “Forget about Mason and Hawkins. There are bigger issues. Do you have that town under control yet?”

It’s an interesting development. You do have the town under control. Your control. “I do sir. The insurrection is over.”

“Good. We believe that this issue with Hawkins will cause tensions between Cheyenne and Texas. I want you to bring your patrols in for the time being and prepare for re-enforcements. Now that Jericho is controlled, you’ll be re-deployed to the Texas border for security reasons.” A pause and a swallow. You can imagine Valente sitting in his own office having a drink.

“Do you understand Major?”

A fork in the road of life. A pivotal point in not just the history of the country but maybe even the world.

“I do sir. I will await your orders.”

The line goes dead without a farewell. It’s possible that he may know of the defection. But unlikely. The men would follow their leaders in this. Your platoons will fall in. Especially once you propagate the information among them.

For now though, you just feel tired. The phone drops back in its cradle. You’ve just become a double-agent.

Your wife’s face looks up at you from the inside of your helmet. It hurts. It’ll hurt for a while. You pluck the picture and toss the helmet to the floor as you regard it. The smiling faces of the two most important women in your life are happy.

There’s a war coming and it’s almost a relief now to know that they won’t have to live through it.

A hand on his shoulder and your eyes raise to find Heather next to you. You didn’t even hear her sneak in, but now she’s here. And a sad smile plays across her own face. Her other hand reaches up and brushes at your cheek.

Her fingertips come away wet and you’re crying, head bent and shoulders shuddering. Great pulls of air rush through your mouth and Heather’s hand tightens. Meeting her gaze, you notice she’s crying too. Small paths of liquid pain roll down her cheeks, past her chin.

“I’m so sorry.”

You can find no other words than these and you hope that she’ll accept them because that’s all you’ve got. An apology for the ruin of her town at your military’s hand.

Her fingers brush your cheek again and she blinks away her tears.

“There’ll be enough time to say sorry to me later. I understand. And I’ll accept. You should really think about the town though. They’ll want to know that their Major in Residence isn’t going to be such an asshole anymore.”

A wide grin breaks across your face and the heaving stops. Deep breaths. That’s how you’re going to get through the coming days. Heather grabs a tissue and cleans up your tears. It would almost be comical if it weren’t so absurd and you catch a wrist as it goes in for another pass. You pull it gently to her side and wipe away the rest yourself.

You stand, a different man. Intrigue never really interested you in training, but it’s been thrust upon you. Embracing it will save you; maybe even save this town.

For a while at least.

Heather is closer yet, almost pressed to your side. This hurt in your soul, it’ll pass. This woman by your side will help, but not yet.

She’s right. Now he needs to go make amends for weeks of torture.

At the exit to the Town hall, a small hand slips in side of yours and you glances down to find Heather beaming back up at you. You give the hand a squeeze and the two of you exit.

The End


End file.
